


what we've become

by LeilaKalomi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Hates the 14th Century (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Demisexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Plague, Repressed Crowley, Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Stop (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24119785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Crowley struggles to accept what he is to Aziraphale after six thousand years of longing come to a head during the Covid-19 pandemic.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 246





	what we've become

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about the Covid-19 pandemic, but only sort of. It does, however, reference other kinds of illness and trauma. Please read the tags carefully.
> 
> I drafted this fic before the lockdown video was released, so it doesn't reference that video at all (though I was so happy they made it).

It had been happening more and more since the showdown in Tadfield, them touching each other. For nearly six thousand years, they hadn’t done it much at all. For a while, after what had happened in Eden, it seemed like Aziraphale made it a point not to touch Crowley. But after Tadfield they’d walked back through the town, found a wine shop with something acceptable to imbibe, and as they approached the bus stop, Crowley noticed Aziraphale looking at him in a way that made his heart speed up. He’d taken a deep breath and gulped a few times and imagined hugging him. And then he had. The world still hadn’t ended; instead, Aziraphale agreed to come home with him. On the bus, Aziraphale held his hand.

After their dinner at the Ritz, they’d hugged good night and then laughed at themselves when Aziraphale let go and said, “Well, I suppose you needn’t leave, really,” and blinked at him, and so Crowley had gone inside, still laughing. He’d felt filled up with a warm, incandescent light, nearly bursting with it. He’d fallen asleep on Aziraphale’s couch.

They’re rarely apart these days. And they’ve all but forgotten about the humans. Of course when they bother to venture into the world, the humans are there: they make food for Aziraphale and TV and obnoxious technology for Crowley. But these days, most of their time is spent sitting in Aziraphale’s bookshop, reading (fine, yes, Crowley reads). Sometimes Crowley listens to the angel read. They like reading Shakespeare out loud, the two of them doing all the parts.

They eat, or drink cocoa or tea or wine. Crowley goes home most nights if he doesn’t fall asleep on the sofa. But they don’t really engage with humans much. It feels like they’ve lost interest in their affairs for the time being. It’s an adjustment period, he tells Aziraphale when Aziraphale frets over it. Nothing for the angel to feel guilty about. He _ought_ to enjoy himself a little without that twat Gabriel breathing down his neck.

And it’s nice how sometimes now they sit together on the sofa, close, hands touching. It’s especially nice how now, before Crowley goes home in the evenings, they hug goodbye.

They don’t talk about it.

And now, Aziraphale and Crowley lie side by side on a picnic blanket in a park. It’s surprisingly quiet, and they hardly notice how few people are around.

Aziraphale’s fingers have wound around Crowley’s hand. Crowley turns his hand over under Aziraphale’s. It’s cool out, not cold, but not so warm that the touch is uncomfortable. Crowley isn’t sure it would matter to him if it were. Aziraphale’s hands are soft and smooth. He manicures them, Crowley knows, or rather, he hires someone to do it. He’d tried it himself once but had only been able to think about Aziraphale the whole time, to wish it were the angel’s soft, careful hands on his. Crowley sighs.

“Crowley?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you quite all right?”

“Fine.”

“Quite a heavy sigh,” Aziraphale says. He squeezes Crowley’s hand. Crowley thinks maybe his heart stops. He clears his throat, but then there’s a rustle. Crowley hears it first and scrambles to sit up, disentangling their hands. Aziraphale stares at him, then looks around. He looks disappointed, Crowley has time to note, before there’s a voice from behind them.

“Gentlemen, this park is closed.” It’s a police officer, looking ridiculous in one of those horrible yellow vests. Crowley frowns. “I’m afraid picnics are quite definitely considered a nonessential outing. You’ll need to clear out at once.”

“Nonessential?” Aziraphale says, drawing himself up. “I don’t understand.”

“Gents, there’s a pandemic on. Get _going._ ”

“A _pandemic_ ,” Aziraphale says. He frowns, crosses his feet and pushes himself up to standing. He doesn’t look at Crowley.

“Right,” says the police officer. “You’ll need to clear out.”

Crowley frowns. “Pandemic, is it,” he says. That doesn’t seem right. Wouldn’t they have noticed something like that? “What, like worldwide?”

“You’re having me on, and I’ll have none of it. Leave _now_ ,” says the police officer. “Right bloody now.”

Crowley stands up too. Miracles a trash can to explode a few feet over to give them time to clear up with another miracle and leave without the police officer following them. But Aziraphale strides along ahead of him, not looking back, not waiting.

“Angel?”

“Did you know?” Aziraphale asks.

“No, what? Of course not. You think I—what? I had something to do with it? I don’t even know what it is. For all I know he’s having _us_ on.”

“No, no, Crowley. I didn’t think you had anything to do with it. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Oh, well...it’s nothing.” Crowley grabs and crumples a citation from the windshield of his Bentley and slides in. Aziraphale opens his door and lowers himself inside, giving a look around as if he expects the police officer to be watching them still. “Crowley...why didn’t we _notice_? Do you think that can really be—oh, dear. Oh, _no_.”

“Angel, look. It’s all right. If it was anything like before…”

“Oh, _Crowley_ , do you think he’s back?”

“Must be, isn’t he? Nothing we can do then, yeah? So—”

Aziraphale is already starting to tear up. Crowley sighs, reaches out, takes his hand. “Aziraphale...it’ll be all right. We’ll just...go figure things out. See where things stand.”

Aziraphale nods, pressing his lips together, going stiff and stern. His hand is clamped around Crowley’s.

“I’m just going to, uh, need my hand back, then.”

Aziraphale gives a huff, as if Crowley is making a horrible fuss over absolutely nothing, but he lets go. Crowley, just to mess with him, just to maybe make him laugh, makes a show out of flexing and wiggling his fingers, giving his hand a good massage. Aziraphale tries not to react, but it’s there, a prickle of joy around his mouth, a little light in his eyes. Crowley suddenly has the urge to lean over and kiss Aziraphale, just a peck on the forehead or something, but it scares him. What would Aziraphale do? They’re quiet as he eases the car onto the road.

It’s not the first time he’s had a thought like that, of course. They’ve been even more frequent since the world didn’t end, what with all the hugging and touching. And sometimes he thinks he sees Aziraphale looking at him a certain way, almost hungry. The problem is, Crowley’s not sure if _that_ ’s what he wants. Might be. He’d certainly like to lie down with Aziraphale, press close to him, feel his warmth, his skin even. He’d like to touch him everywhere, to know every part of him. He dreams of kissing him, of knowing the feel of his lips, his wet mouth pressed to Crowley’s.

But the other thing. Sex. Crowley can take it or leave it, he thinks. At least that’s how it was before, when he’d tried it with humans. It might be different with Aziraphale, but that might not be a good thing. Because Crowley knows how Aziraphale likes his pleasures. Soft fabrics against his skin, delicate flavors on his tongue. He scents himself, surrounds himself with the sensual. He doesn’t want that to be all it is: a warm body to press into, just another pleasure. And since they haven’t _talked_ about it, Crowley isn’t sure what Aziraphale is thinking. Isn’t sure what it is he wants, or even if he’s imagined the hungry looks and all the angel wants is this, a bit of handholding, a few hugs.

Crowley likes the handholding, loves the hugs, the way Aziraphale’s arms close around him against his body, keeping him there. The act is so warm and urgent, like holding Crowley is something he _means_ , something it is important to do. So he’s just going along with it right now, afraid that if he pushes, Aziraphale will remember why he ought not to (there isn’t any reason anymore, Crowley reminds himself) and stop.

* * *

It had been nearly two years since Armageddon didn’t happen. Crowley checks the date on his mobile when they arrive at the bookshop. There are fewer pedestrians on the street. Some of them are wearing masks. There aren’t as many cars. Everything is quieter. How had they not noticed this sooner?

Inside, they sit together on the couch. Aziraphale is fretful. He makes and forgets cocoa; pours—but does not drink—wine. More for Crowley then. He drinks his own glass and Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale pours them both more.

“It says here people are meant to stay home. Self-isolate or something,” Crowley says, staring down at his mobile. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, and he sits down on the sofa next to Crowley. He’s too close, but neither of them moves away. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s breath, the heat of him, as he leans in to peer at the little screen.

“‘Alone or with members of your household,’” Aziraphale reads. He looks up at Crowley. Somewhat significantly, it seems. His knee presses into Crowley’s thigh as he turns to face him.

Crowley hesitates, looking down at where they’re touching. “Angel—”

“My dear fellow, we’ve been _terribly_ preoccupied haven’t we? Terribly _involved_ , I mean. _Preoccupied_ would seem to imply something unpleasant weighing us down. And that isn’t it at all, is it?”

“No,” Crowley says, shakily. “But I mean, they’re not briefing us anymore. You can’t expect us to catch on to every little thing. There’s nothing we can do about something like this anyway. A plague. That’s Pestilence. It’s not—”

Aziraphale raises a hand, presses it to Crowley’s lips. He’s never done anything like that before. Crowley stops talking, stops breathing.

There’s a long moment, then Crowley brings his hand up to Aziraphale’s, takes it, presses it to his lips again. Aziraphale smiles in a way that looks like it hurts. Crowley can’t help but recognize the look, even if it pushes hard on his defenses. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to doubt his welcome; he doesn’t want Aziraphale to hurt. _It’s OK_ , Crowley wants to tell him. _Oh, God, Aziraphale, yes, yes, it’s OK._

“My darling,” Aziraphale whispers, “I’d like to kiss you. May I kiss you?” And instead of any words of comfort or simple assent, Crowley lets out a squeak, nods, and Aziraphale’s other hand lands on Crowley’s thigh, and he leans forward slowly, presses his lips to Crowley’s, and it’s soft and chaste and so sweet, so Crowley leans in for more. Aziraphale gasps, sighs, and pulls him closer this time, their lips parting. Crowley groans embarrassingly, but Aziraphale doesn’t make him stop. It’s perfect, better than Crowley had imagined, even under the less than ideal circumstances.

And then, for some reason, he thinks of Hastur. Filthy, stinking Hastur, pressed close to Aziraphale here on the couch. He tries to shove the thought away, but his mind argues with him. All right, so Aziraphale wouldn’t do that. Hastur wouldn’t either, probably. But it is disgusting to think of. And isn’t this sort of the same thing? Crowley is a demon, after all. Demons are filthy, disgusting things. Vessels of misery and sin. And there is a plague on (pandemic, plague, it all amounts to the same). Crowley can snap his fingers and shower all he likes, but he is a demon, no matter how much hellfire he’s doused, how much brimstone he has scrubbed away.

In the fourteenth century, Aziraphale had sickened. He’d had fever, and his skin had started to necrose around his fingers. It had been just a few days after they’d met. Crowley had seen him, though Aziraphale hadn’t known. It would have been a short illness. Aziraphale had healed himself and was as shining and new as ever the next time Crowley had seen him, but it had happened. And Crowley had wondered if he’d had something to do with it somehow. He’d gone away from Aziraphale after that, had waited a good long time until the Black Death was far behind them.

And now? If they did this, whatever _this_ was...what if Aziraphale wanted more? What if Aziraphale slid his hand under Crowley’s shirt; what if he wanted Crowley inside him? What if Crowley had this one, this plague, whatever this was, and he gave it to Aziraphale too? All so Aziraphale could have a bit of pleasure, and Crowley could pretend that this was something real, something he could trust. And then after...after...no, no, he couldn’t do this to Aziraphale. Couldn’t do this to himself.

“No,” he mutters, pulling away. Aziraphale’s mouth had been so warm and wet. Crowley’s feels cold now. He presses his hand to it and doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale says. His tone is very even.

“Look, Aziraphale...we’re supposed to be isolating, right?”

“Well, I suppose it would be good to set an example and stop vexing policemen, but I rather thought we could—”

“I should go. I need to go. This is…”

“I’m _sorry_ , Crowley. I—I must have misunderstood. I think. I still don’t think I understand. Did you not want—please don’t leave like this—we needn’t—”

“Later.”

Aziraphale winces.

Crowley sighs. “Later, angel,” he says, softening. Then he turns and leaves, letting the door fall shut behind him.

* * *

Aziraphale once asked Crowley if he remembered being an angel. Crowley lied to him. It seems to him that Aziraphale knows it was a lie, because he had always been careful not to bring it up again. Unless, it seems, they were on the verge of some awful disagreement. Once, right before he’d asked Aziraphale for holy water for the first time (“We may have both started off as angels…”) and then again in the midst of all the apocalyptic turmoil (“You were an angel once…”). Crowley remembers the times it came up, just as he remembers his life in Heaven before that place had become quite what it was now.

It had never been _free_. That was the real problem with it, the thing he always wanted Aziraphale to understand, because some little part of him had thought, almost as long as he’d known the angel, that if he could just get Aziraphale to _understand_ that—not necessarily to do anything about it—then maybe he, Crowley, would have the courage to do something big one day, something to break the last of his bonds. And he had. They had. It was better than anything he’d imagined.

But even though the Fall was Crowley’s first moment of casting off shackles, he hates to think about what happened after, the time before the beginning, when he’d been alone there, confined and kept separate from the others. It wasn’t anything particular to him; that was just how it was in Hell. Oh, now it’s a bit different with too many bodies pressed into too little space. But then, back then, when they’d first started Falling…

The War had gone on for a long time. Crowley was one of the first to Fall. When he’d landed, he’d wept. Gadreel had fallen not long after him. Crowley had lain there unattended, limbless and broken, his eyes clouded over with moisture he was unable to blink away. He could not see himself, could not find arms or legs or quite figure out how to move. But when he saw Gadreel, when he heard her screams, he looked around at the others. All right, they didn’t want to approach him. It seemed cold, perhaps cruel, but he’d been quiet with his tears. Perhaps they hadn’t noticed.

But for no one to comfort Gadreel? He tried to go to her. Felt his body heavy and strong, the whole of it propelling him along. He had not seen the Earth, the prototypes for it. He did not know what he was. It did not occur to him that he might be anything different from what he had been. He was Fallen, yes. But he did not yet know what that meant.

“Gadreel,” he tried to say. But her name would not leave his mouth. His voice rasped. She turned, and her eyes were blood red, and she shrieked at the sight of him.

“It’s me,” he said. He tried to say his name. The others laughed. He moved closer to her, and she held out her hands, her fingers covered in black fur.

“No,” she said. “Get away.” She had fangs. He moved his tongue along his own teeth and felt that he did too.

So he backed away. He’d wanted to embrace her, as he would have an ailing angel. But he saw now that he could not have. He had no limbs, only a body like a crushing, bruising vise. And fangs. _Fangs_. Something to hurt, a weapon built right into what he was.

They were all scared. He understands that now. They didn’t know then what they were, any of them. They didn’t know what they could do. They stayed away from each other, stayed quiet in their own little corners. If anyone got too close, they roared or growled or hissed. Sometimes they scratched or bit or struck. That was how they learned the things they could do to hurt each other. That was how some of them learned that they enjoyed it.

Crowley kept himself coiled tight, ready to spring. He usually stayed big so he would seem threatening, but if they looked away long enough, sometimes he made himself small enough to hide. When they found him small once, he made venom, concentrated hard on it, tested it out the next time one of them reached out to give him a twist. It was not deadly—nothing they could do to each other really was, short of using ethereal weapons—but it made a solid point. No one got close again for a while. Which was for the best, Crowley tried to tell himself. There was no reason to want someone to get close. All they would do was hurt him, unless he hurt them first.

When the world got going, they tried human forms. There were only two humans at this point, so none of them really knew what they were doing; they all tried different things, and there were some things they couldn’t get right. None of them could look all the way human, but Crowley felt he’d done well. Aside from his eyes and wings, his body was passable. He didn’t like the way the others looked at it, though. It made him nervous. It made them whisper, say things about him. He sensed that they were planning something. So he made himself a snake again and went to see Lucifer. He asked to go up, if there wasn’t something up there that they ought to have someone doing. Lucifer looked at him.

“You had a very _nice_ form,” he said. “When you tried to look human. I think we could really use you up there. Someone with that kind of attention to _detail_.”

Crowley hadn’t understood. Lucifer seemed to think something was funny about it, about his human form being nice.

“Have you ever heard of _lust_?” Lucifer asked.

Crowley shook his head.

Lucifer laughed. “Well, you will. You will, pet. All right, then. Get up there and make some trouble. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

 _Pet?_ Crowley slithered up, eager to get away. He stayed a snake because he didn’t think there were supposed to be other people yet; it might scare them if he looked human. Once he got up there and watched them, Adam and Eve, they were called, he forgot what he was supposed to do. They touched each other. They did it easily, a hand to the shoulder or face. There had been a few days of this before they pressed their bodies together and moaned and gasped and Crowley turned his face away, feeling like it was something he wasn’t meant to see. Afterwards, they sat together, leaning against a tree, Eve’s body braced against Adam’s, as if he made her feel safe. Crowley hated them in that moment. But that wasn’t why he’d tempted Eve to try the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. It was just that it was, well, the Tree of Knowledge. And shouldn’t she want knowledge? Crowley always had. “I think I’d do anything to _know_ ,” he told Eve. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, really.”

He did not tell her that what he wanted to know, most of all right then, was what it was like to feel safe with someone, the way she did with Adam. It had worked. She’d eaten the apple, and then they’d been kicked out of the garden. All that safety behind them. But it hadn’t been real, anyway Crowley told himself. It wasn’t what he’d meant to happen. It hardly seemed fair. _Nothing was fair._

And then he’d met Aziraphale. Crowley went to him, expecting him to argue, expecting a little more scandalized tunic clutching, a little more fight than he got. He had to tone it way down. Aziraphale had given away his sword like he was the one looking for trouble, and now he was fretting, which made Crowley feel...something. Then Aziraphale asked his name and sheltered him from the rain. Didn’t move away when Crowley stepped closer. And just like that, Crowley felt safe. It didn’t make sense, but there it was. Crowley didn’t want to leave.

They watched as Adam and Eve made their way farther and farther from the Garden.

“Well, Crawly, haven’t you somewhere else to be?” Aziraphale asked.

“Maybe eventually?” Crowley said, shrugging. He sat down on the wall, though Aziraphale kept standing, kept darting his eyes over to him. Finally he sat down too. They continued their conversation, edging closer to each other. Crowley was doing it deliberately, though he suspected the angel wasn’t really aware that he was mirroring Crowley by moving closer too. It was dark by then, and Crowley said, “Have you tried sleep?” He had, and found that he quite liked it.

“I’m not really supposed to,” Aziraphale said, though it was obvious he was tired. “I’m meant to keep watch.”

“Oh, they’re well and gone,” Crowley said.

“Do you think?’ Aziraphale yawned. He was so close. Crowley nodded eagerly. He wasn’t sure why he was eager until Aziraphale swayed, his eyes closing, his head landing softly against Crowley’s bony shoulder. It was what he’d wanted; now that he had it, he could admit it to himself.

Crowley hesitated a moment, then reached for him, made his spare body if not a cushion then a shield. He wouldn’t let him fall, not from so high, not when there were lions below. He didn’t sleep himself but held the angel all night, fascinated by his closeness, his softness, his warmth. If Crowley leaned in, he could catch the scent of him, clean and bright like rainkissed leaves and just-bitten apples. It made him want to weep, but he kept himself still so Aziraphale wouldn’t wake.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said in the morning. He stood, tugging at his tunic and looking down at Crowley as if having some kind of unsavory realization about his nighttime companion. “Oh, I _see_. You _are_ a tempter. This is...dereliction. Oh, dear. Oh, dear, _dear_. Do excuse me, ah, Crawly.” And he waved a hand and was gone.

After that, when he saw Aziraphale, the angel was careful not to touch him. Crowley never forgot his face after he’d woken up, so he didn’t try. But he kept thinking about the way it had felt. He tried it with humans a few times, but it was hard to get them to want that too, and once they did, it seemed to lead to other things, and it only took trying that out once or twice before Crowley knew he didn’t want it. Except maybe...but he couldn’t even touch Aziraphale, so no. Never mind. He put that thought out of his mind, and tried his best to keep it that way.

It had worked for thousands of years, until Rome. And there was that one time, in the fourteenth century, when Aziraphale reached out for him. But it was best not to think of that: plague everywhere and people dying. Aziraphale begging him to help. He couldn’t _agree_ , not out loud, not with Pestilence lurking, grinning, _watching_. He would have helped. He tried to show it to Aziraphale without using words, tried to walk to the house the angel had left, give the people something, at least, to ease their way. But Aziraphale’s hand closed over his. He gulped, pressed his eyes closed. He felt as if he’d been hit in the chest.

It was only a week later he’d found the angel again without meaning to. Had seen him lying in a sick house in Padua, unconscious, the tips of his fingers blackened. Crowley hadn’t understood it. Angels couldn’t catch diseases from humans. They weren’t supposed to sicken. He woke Aziraphale, ignoring the creeping sensation of dread until he saw the angel stir. Then he slipped away, suddenly ashamed. Demons couldn’t catch diseases either. Couldn’t spread them, he’d assumed, but he _was_ a demon, and Aziraphale was an angel...what if that was the problem? Crowley was anathema to him. And Aziraphale had touched him.

He lurked only long enough to see Aziraphale heal himself, to see Aziraphale leave. He felt it had been a close call. It must have been hard for the angel to get better after that. He made himself a promise then: that he wouldn’t go near Aziraphale, not unless he had a very good reason. Not unless Aziraphale needed him. He might have been carrying all sorts of germs, his body harboring them, altering them into some kind of occult thing, some defense against the ethereal. Then when Pestilence retired in 1936, he’d let his guard down and thought maybe he’d been afraid of nothing.

But he’s been stupid. Pestilence is back now, and it isn’t as if antibiotics have any effect on angels and demons anyway. Or viruses, for that matter.

* * *

Aziraphale telephones Crowley; by the time Crowley reaches his flat, he has a voicemail on his mobile and another message on his ansaphone.

 _“Crowley, it’s me. Aziraphale. I’m really very sorry. I presumed too much, I’m afraid. I...really don’t think I understand exactly what happened. Could we talk? Please. Oh, take as much time as you need, of course. Only I_ am _sorry.”_

_“Crowley, it’s me. Did you get my other message? Please return my call. I’m so dreadfully sorry, my dear. I’d hoped we might...quarantine together. But I suppose that’s entirely off the table now. Oh, dear, what am I saying? Please do ignore me. Only, please—I mean—oh, I don’t know what I mean. I’m sorry. I suppose that’s all, really. If you—if you like, please don’t hesitate to—to ring me. I would like to talk. Goodbye then.”_

Aziraphale sounds awful in both, like he’s trying to stop himself from flying into a panic. Like maybe it isn’t working. Crowley thinks about the way Aziraphale had looked when he’d left. The confusion, the hurt. The note of something else that crept into his voice between the two messages: guilt. He sits down at his desk, hesitating. He picks up the phone.

“It’s me,” he says, his voice cold and hard.

Aziraphale hesitates. “Oh,” he said. “I—I wasn’t sure you’d ring. So I—”

“Well, I’ve rung. So.”

“Can we talk? About this?”

“What’s to talk about, angel? There’s nothing to talk about, is there? I’m here; you’re there. No end in sight, so. I’ll see you when it’s over. Perhaps.”

“ _Perhaps?_ ” it comes out on a breath. “Crowley, was it so terrible as all that? It’s just that it did seem...I suppose I might _flatter_ myself, but I thought...I thought you enjoyed it at first. I never meant to push.”

 _This was a mistake,_ Crowley thinks. He shouldn’t have called Aziraphale. He should hang up now. Instead he sighs and says, “It was good, angel. It was so good.”

Aziraphale gasps, and Crowley can hear him preparing to speak again, so he goes on.

“It’s just...we can’t.”

“Crowley. Let me in.”

“What?”

“Let me in,” Aziraphale repeats. “Please. So we can discuss this properly.”

But Crowley is already at his door, already jerking it open. Aziraphale is standing there, no phone in sight, looking a little lost. He flickers his gaze downward and back up at Crowley.

“There you are,” he says. His voice sounds calm and bracing, if you don’t know where to find the tremor. Crowley knows. He steps back to let the angel pass. _Don’t breathe on him_. He makes a little noise as he realizes it: Aziraphale shouldn’t be here.

“ _Why_ can’t we?” Aziraphale’s voice is careful, as if Crowley is some skittish animal. “They’re still leaving us alone. Aren’t they?”

“Yes. But if _he_ ’s back...”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. It doesn’t affect us. Not directly.”

“Aziraphale, look. We can’t catch it from them, yeah, but it’s...it could be all over _me_ by now.”

“What? What the devil are you talking about? You’re a demon. You can’t get ill. Not with human illnesses.”

“But _you_ can. And I carry them. Might do. Look, angel, I _saw_ you.”

“ _Saw_ me? When? What do you mean?”

“ _Then_. The _fourteenth century_.”

“Well, yes. I recall I did see you—”

“The _Plague_ , angel. I saw you, and you...you touched me and your hands...you got sick. It doesn’t make sense unless it was because of me.”

Aziraphale draws a sharp breath; his hands press together at his chest. “Oh, Crowley, no. Why ever would you think that?”

“Because how else could it have happened? You’re an angel. I’m a demon. Angels don’t get sick. And we’re not meant to be like this, like what we are now...and I’m just. I’m not...I’m not even. I’m not making any sense. You shouldn’t be here. If you discorporate now—”

“But Crowley, no. That’s not what happened at all. Oh, I’d no _idea_ you thought so. No idea you even knew that I’d...no, no. Crowley, you didn’t infect me with plague. I chose to...to _experience_ it. My write-ups weren’t having the desired effect, and I thought I might be able to make a bit more headway with Gabriel with a rather closer narrative. Oh, my _dear_. You believed that, all these years?”

Crowley doesn’t know how to answer him. In theory it should be easy. He could open his mouth; he could speak. But it would be a low rasp, a hiss, barely worthy of being called a voice. He can’t even move. His eyes sting, they overflow when he presses them closed. Now Aziraphale is stepping even closer.

“There now,” Aziraphale says. He’s reaching for him, reaching up to touch Crowley, to touch his face. His fingers are soft and warm and dry. The tears dissipate where they touch. “Is that all right?” And Crowley is _not_ Hastur. He’s clean, and he’s not diseased, and Aziraphale is strong and divine. He won’t sicken. He won’t discorporate. So Crowley doesn’t move away, but he still can’t speak. He tries to speak, remembers that air is helpful for making sounds, and only manages to emit a low whine before he can croak out, “Yeah.”

Aziraphale’s fingers don’t stop caressing him even when the tears are gone. They trace the lines of his face, the features, the bones, the edges and grooves.

“Is that why you left?” Aziraphale asks. He’s so close his breath feels like another touch, and his voice is soft and sweet. He looks so hopeful. There’s still that edge there, the other thing. And it’s as if he’s asking, well, if that was all it was, can they get back to what they’d been doing? Crowley can feel it from him. He can’t meet his eyes, hungry and hopeful as they are. He hates to deny Aziraphale anything. _Have you heard of lust?_ Lucifer had asked Crowley all those years before.

“Sort of,” Crowley says. “It’s just...I don’t really fancy sex. Not that kind, anyway. The rushed kind. Kind you do for lack of anything better to do. The kind you don’t mean.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. He looks crushed, so sad that Crowley panics, so sad that Crowley wants to take it back, to give him anything, anything, to make him not look like that again. But he _can’t_. Not that. Not with Aziraphale. It could ruin too much. “Crowley, it wasn’t—I thought that you—”

“Do you mean it?”

“Oh, I still don’t understand, I’m afraid.”

Crowley swallows. “When you...when we kissed. It’s not just. Fun. Just, something to do? It’s not just, ‘Oh it’s only Crowley, he won’t mind a bit of _lust_?’”

Aziraphale’s mouth drops open. He looks positively scandalized. “My dear fellow, is that what you think of me? That I would treat you with such carelessness? That I would be so eager to indulge that I would put aside the obvious effects it would have on you?”

“I can feel it coming off you, Aziraphale. Always do.”

There’s a beat. Aziraphale doesn’t deny anything, which makes Crowley pause and realize what Aziraphale has just said.

“Effects on _me_?”

But Aziraphale is frowning.

“Yes. Though I didn’t think, apparently, about what you could and couldn’t...Crowley, it’s not—I love you, you idiot. I know you love me too, of course, though I’ve no idea at all about the other thing. It seems to me I might have spared us both a good deal of discomfort if I’d only said as much to begin with, but I—”

Crowley steps forward, takes his face in his hands, and kisses him.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Well, then.”

“Only,” Crowley starts, “I don’t know about the other thing either. I’ve never...

“Neither have I,” Aziraphale says, breathily.

Crowley shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I mean, I’ve never...liked it. Never wanted to do it.”

“Then we won’t,” Aziraphale makes it sound so simple. So easy.

“What if I change my mind? What if it’s different with you? I think it might be different.” Aziraphale’s body is soft and warm against his. Crowley could relax with him, be himself; it wouldn’t be like it had been with humans. People he’d found because he had to, who misunderstood his need to feel someone close. Not _someone_ , _Aziraphale_. Now Aziraphale’s hand moves into his hair.

“Then we’ll try it. If you like. If you don’t want to, we won’t. And if we try it and you _don’t_ like it, we’ll stop, and we’ll never do it again.”

“And that’s... _really_?”

“Yes, of course.”

Crowley lets himself be led to his sofa, lets Aziraphale miracle it soft and lie them down, pull his body into his soft, warm arms and kiss the top of his head, his temples, his cheeks, his lips.

“There’s no rush,” Aziraphale says. “This is all I want now.”

Crowley turns so they’re facing each other. He studies Aziraphale’s face. Cups the back of his head with his hands and kisses him slowly, deeply. He’d seen nothing there but love, desire. No disappointment.

He rests his face on Aziraphale’s chest, feeling him close. Crowley is safe with him. And he’s safe with Crowley. Crowley feels a flare deep in his belly, something pulling him closer to Aziraphale. He will want it someday, he thinks, to make love with Aziraphale. But there’s no rush. This is what he wants now. It’s all he’s ever wanted.


End file.
